


La bella donna

by ch1ps0h0y



Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: Character Death, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Psychological Trauma, Rape/Non-con Elements, Stockholm Syndrome, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-18
Updated: 2012-06-18
Packaged: 2017-12-05 09:10:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/721349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ch1ps0h0y/pseuds/ch1ps0h0y
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What happened behind closed doors while Mukuro was held captive by the don of the MIllefiore, Byakuran? WARNING: Not your conventional love story; involves rape, torture, and all that nasty stuff.</p>
            </blockquote>





	La bella donna

**I.** _**Broken Straw and Wild Tansy** _

The delicate bloom which rests on the stark white of his pillow seems out of place in such a sterile environment. The colours are striking, hurtful to his eye as much as its natural curves and soft edges, soft petals, relax him, conflict with the harsh lines of his colour-leeched room. He has to suffer such intrusions each morning: he will wake after a restless night's sleep to find the flower laid by the curling locks of his long, dark hair. Close enough to smell. Close enough to startle him from his slumber, and prompt him to crush the thing beneath the heel of his boot.

He stares at the twisted mess of snow-white, golden yellow and verdant fibres devoid of its former beauty. His heart beats quickly, yet to settle from the rush of adrenaline which tore him out of his bed to destroy this precious gift from the outside. This breath of life.

He does not turn as a panel hisses open behind him. He can tell who it is by the way the feet step lightly, the way they _emphasise_ their existence by stepping on the heel and following through to the ball of the foot. They click their tongue - in disappointment or chiding he cannot tell - when their eyes fall upon the disfigured bloom.

"It's a shame to waste such a pretty gift."

He hates that voice as much as he now despises the rotting husk dying by his feet. He neither turns nor responds to the musical voice whose question floats after him.

"Won't you join me for breakfast?"

The bathroom door shuts pointedly; the lock clicks. Alone in the cold, tiled confines, he rests his forehead against the smooth surface. Just beyond waits the one with power enough to make even this thick metal panel crumble like flimsy aluminium foil. And it will, if he remains here; an invitation delivered in such sweet, honeyed tones leaves no room for argument or excuses. He drifts wraithlike to the inset mirror above the firmly fixed porcelain sink and examines the image reflected.

Resignation paints the shadows in his haggard face. It deepens the lines of fret and worry which have eaten away at him since his internment of countless hours and countless days. His beautiful indigo silk tresses hang lank and dull over his shoulders, tangling his fingers when he cards them through the wispy strands. A lighter-hued eye that contains the barest spark of life takes in all this and his thin frame - so thin that the bones protrude through the skin. What is left of his other eye is hidden beneath a wad of bandages held in place by a shoddy eye patch.

Nothing can be done to salvage his appearance, so he merely splashes his face with water, goes through the motions of those daily human necessities before he steps out. Straight into the arms of his jailer.

"...Haven't you been eating, Mukuro-kun?"

Hands trace his collarbone, roam down his arms then almost tenderly feel the skeleton of his hand. Pale, icy fingers tilt his chin up to meet their dreaded eyes and they ask, oh so softly:

"Well?"

What can he say to refute that simple word?

When it becomes clear he will not answer, they shake their head and fold him into their arms, murmuring in a dangerously low voice, "Remember, you are not allowed to die without my permission, my beauty." Their hand tightens on his wrist.

His breath hitches but he does not squirm. If he does they will snap the bone, and he needs every part of his body intact.

_Why?_

The pressure lessens and he draws his arm back as soon as he is able. The hand which threatened to deal him harm now rests lightly in the small of his back, guiding him outside the room by his jailer's side. The panel which keeps him confined slides open at their touch, revealing a corridor stretching out on either side. White, replaced by more white with little variation. Brown, black, grey.

The barrier restricting his mental faculties runs through the entirety of the facility. He quests for the beacon that is his body so that he may return. Each morning he holds out on the hope that the barrier will weaken, that they will fail for the briefest of moments to allow him to slip away, out of the demon's grasp.

Hope is the cruellest of torture's instruments.

He keeps his head bowed. Many of the other man's underlings hurry past them, sparing no more than a curious glance, if that. They know he is a prisoner though he wears no shackles. His dishevelled clothing and unkempt appearance distance him from their pristine uniforms and clean-shaven features. It is worse than the bloodstains which had initially coated him.

"This way," his jailer says cheerfully, though they need not have bothered; he has memorised the route to where they will dine and turns automatically towards the appropriate door, opened graciously by his jailer for him to step through first.

There is a banquet laid out for them both. Simple fare, but plenty of it. Racks of well-toasted bread are set out next to nondescript pots of dark red jam and a sizeable slab of butter. Pancakes are stacked within reaching distance and a bottle of dark syrup stands ready for use beside them. There is also a choice of bacon and eggs should something more substantial be desired, the combined smell reminding him of easier, more peaceful times when he had enjoyed such a breakfast at leisure in the company of friends. ('Friends', he muses; once he would have called them enemies.) Their cutlery is set beside spotless white plates upon which lays neatly-folded napkins. He takes his accustomed seat to the left and to the side of the lone one at the head of the table.

As he stares at their morning repast he wonders, what poison has been added this morning, and to what?

The smiling demon silently taking his seat at the head of the table offers no hints, only promises - something is tainted; it is up to him to discover what it is. Immune to all deadly substances, watching what the man ate served no purpose. It was a game. A game of chance.

It all looks so innocent. Perfectly cooked, perfectly fried, perfectly toasted. A less knowledgeable person would think surely none of them are laced with poison. But he knows better. Behind the innocent façade lies a deadly danger; hidden within the lie of safety is a threat.

With their narrowed eyes upon him, he selects a piece of toast from the rack. There is another trick to this - not all of the bread is harmful. Again, it will be chance that determines whether or not he survives. Sometimes he does. Most times he does not.

The piece of bread hovers by his lips. The man was right; he _hadn't_ eaten for several days. He had been recovering from their last breakfast and had refused the food sent to his room in the hopes of perishing through starvation.

His hand trembles. Should it be poisoned, it will ensure a more swift death than starvation.

Before his captor can comment on his hesitation, he bites into the toast and tears away a piece, chewing thoroughly. His teeth make short work of the slice and soon the whole thing is devoured. He sits back, waiting.

Waiting.

He begins to feel disappointed; luck has been with him, it seems. As he reaches for another piece, he gasps: an acute pain, like a stab in the gut, abrupt - _agonising_ \- forces him to double over with a whimper. Something is ripping through his insides. Something that is trying to tear him apart. As if a creature has affixed its claws in his intestines and is rending them through with blunt nails. They dig deep these claws, crushing the dark pink flesh between them and squeezing. _Squeezing_. He writhes, he cries. He coughs and flecks of blood spot the white table cloth.

He is dying.

His chair slides back with a screech as he falls to his knees on the floor, curled into a tight ball as he pants and howls from the agony. Someone else knelt beside him, stroked his neck soothingly as his body shudders in its death throes.

"Does it hurt, Mukuro-kun? Does it hurt to die?"

Crimson trickles thickly from his lips. Blood spray coats the ground. The other man wipes some away from his chin and rubs it between his fingers with a curious smile on his face. They caress his cheeks as he heaves, vomiting yet more blood from his failing organs.

Casually, the white demon draws out a syringe from one of the inner pockets of his uniform jacket. It is already filled with an amount of clear liquid. All that is needed is to attach the needle, tap the cylinder and then hold him still enough to inject it into his arm.

The sting of it sliding in to his vein goes unnoticed. In twenty seconds, his quaking and heaving have settled down. In sixty it has ceased completely. Blood continues to drip from the corner of his mouth and he takes weak, shallow breaths. Having served its purpose, the needle is discarded. Now the man holds him tightly, making hushing noises like a mother to a child as tears dribble down his cheeks.

"Sleep, kitten, sleep..."

Pain fades to an ache, eased away by gentle words and a gentle hand. His eyes flutter closed, their last image being of lavender eyes and a fond smile, dissolving into the unconscious abyss.

 

 **II.** _**Hundred-leaved Rose** _

There was a sound which he could not hear that was calling to him. It beckoned to him and pulled at him as if there was a fine thread fixed to the core of his being. He could not answer the summons for there was something preventing him: a formless wall which barred him from setting foot beyond his confines while the thread trailed undeterred and faded into the blackness. There was light but there was no light. He could see the thread as if it was the brightest thing yet it emitted none of its own radiance. It defied the inkiness by flashing its colours as if it were a clear day.

It led to the one who called to him, he was sure. He only had to follow the vermillion strand to where the mournful peal of a bell rang sonorously from afar. Like a death knell, he chuckled to himself. In any case, he could not stay. This place was never meant for more than a transition between states, a separation between the living and the dead wherein those with strong will had a chance to elude Death and the others were sent to their final rest.

That luxury was not his. His soul would transmigrate, keeping with it the memories and experiences engraved into his essence. He had walked the six Paths so he almost looked forward to seeing what the seventh would bring. For now, he closed his eyes...and dreamt.

 

Mukuro awakens with a start. The sheets slither down his naked body with a dry rustle, pooling about his slender legs as he levers himself up and stares blankly at his empty room. He has no need to question his survival for it is not the first time, nor will it be the last, that he is forced into enduring the pain still wracking his weak body. Toys such as he are only worth as much as the amusement they bring while alive. He hasn't broken from the strain yet and he does not plan to.

The scent of food evokes his hunger and the illusionist's nose follows it to the small bedside table fixed with close-fitting metal staples to the floor. Upon it sits a bowl of warm soup, a portion of crusty bread and an apple, and he is drawn to it like a starving man drawn towards a feast. He stirs the thick, tepid liquid and notes the presence of soft potato and unidentifiable green. Leek, he supposes. His mouth, dry upon waking, is now thick with saliva.

"Hungry, Mukuro-kun?"

It's as if he's been jolted by a surge of electricity; the spoon falls back into the bowl with a splash and he yanks the sheets back up level with his chest. The don laughs at him, a gleam of amusement in his eye as he sits on the edge of the mattress.

"Embarrassed?" Byakuran croons. He pats the leg beside him which twitches out of his reach, bringing forth a chuckle this time. Without any further words, the white-haired man takes the bowl of soup into his hands and holds out a spoonful of it.

Mukuro's suspicious frown is taken with good humour on the other's part. "It's all right," the don says. "Eat."

It does little to assuage his suspicions. But Byakuran is not giving him a choice. Cautiously, he parts his lips, forcing the other man to lean forward and administer the liquid to his patient. The room (or cell) he has been so graciously given is as sterile in atmosphere as it is in appearance. A hospital minus the smell of disinfectant, a prison and a ward - so many uses for a single room bathed in white.

The Millefiore leader feeds him, spoonful by spoonful, until it is all gone. It is when the other man's thumb traces his parted lips that he realises there is no more to be had. He tries to bite the overly intimate appendage but it is withdrawn swiftly.

"I can't decide if you're a kitten or a puppy." Byakuran cups his cheek tenderly, holding back a smirk at the look of simmering outrage on the illusionist.

"Neither," he rasps, throat raw from the bile he had brought up along with the contents of his stomach earlier. His assertion goes unheard; the don moves his hand away and sets the empty bowl back on the table. Mukuro privately hopes that he will leave and it almost seems his hope will be realised. Byakuran begins to stand. Then with a swiftness even the illusionist has to admire, the other man swoops. Their lips are a gentle warmth against his own which nevertheless leave him frozen, startled. The don draws away before his senses can be regained, satisfaction visible in his visage.

"Rest well, Mukuro-kun." With that farewell the Millefiore leader takes his leave, leaving his prisoner to wrestle with his indignation.

The door hisses shut. Once more he is alone. His stomach is content and it only gnaws a little when he glances at the food left, but the illusionist feels no inclination to partake of them. He cannot trust that the rest of it is as safe to eat as the soup he had been fed has been. Not knowing what he can or cannot eat unless Byakuran tells him means he spends his days on the verge of starvation. None of his former strength remains - regular sickness and irregular periods of exercise (if it could be called that) allow his muscles to waste away so his figure is no longer lithe but stringy and skeletal. He had tried to escape during the initial days of his imprisonment but Byakuran had always been there to stop him, beating him to the point where it was more productive to be obedient than make attempts for freedom.

He has been tamed. He has been tamed yet he persists in his small acts of rebellion. The indomitable spirit which will not let him accept defeat rages silently at its captivity. Ah, if only the spirit was not bound by the flesh and the flesh not bound by physical matter, the spirit would have long since fled. Instead it is made to chafe and grow restless, this restlessness expressed in the physical by a ceaseless pacing about the room in which the illusionist is held. Mukuro's fingers trace the blank panel of wall that he knows is a portal to freedom but the surface defies his touch and reveals no unevenness when his nails scrape across it. And so the spirit goes unsatisfied and the pacing resumes anew.

When he tires of pacing, he sleeps. His dreams consist of blurred faces, vague, forgotten memories and the distant shores of a land beyond his reach. He no longer has control of what he dreams. He has lost his right eye in his defeat and with it the skills and abilities which had made him such a feared individual.

Strip a tyrant of his power and all that is left is the man.

Byakuran lets him alone for four days without torment before once more inviting him to his morning repast. This time Mukuro sits where he is without moving, refusing to touch what has been laid out for them. Even with eyes downcast and gaze glued to the glossy ceramic surface of his plate, he can sense the building tension and disapproval from his captor. It cannot last.

The leader of the Millefiore's chill voice cracks the solid silence. "Do you not like what food I've been giving you?"

Wasn't the answer obvious, he thinks listlessly?

His captor leans forward to take his chin between forefinger and thumb, forcing their eyes to meet. "Please?"

The unexpected coaxing, the sudden softening of tone - it throws Mukuro off-balance enough that he stares at the earnest plea in the other man's eyes, rendered mute. Byakuran continues in the same manner, nearly begging him to eat something. Half a boiled egg, even a corner of toast! It is inconceivable that the ruthless leader of the Millefiore Family would resort to such tactics to make his prisoner eat well.

No, he corrects himself: the don had more cunning than a fox and the slyness of a weasel. It is a ploy designed to lower his defences and open himself up to his captor. Clever. Did Byakuran truly think he would be fooled by such an act?

He is right. There is the coldness descending again upon the white-haired man's demeanour. Lilac pools harden into quartz and the don's face takes on a blankness which indicates that he is extremely angry.

"Very well. Perhaps starving is best for you. If you want food you must find it yourself." With that utterance, Byakuran throws down his napkin and stands. "None of this here is edible to you. You are free to leave, Mukuro-kun. You may show yourself out." Thus he strides away, radiating an aura of contained fury.

Again he is thrown. Free to leave? He is free? Surely not. There must be a number of traps waiting to activate should he move from his seat. Weight-triggered explosives? Hidden snipers? Will the opening Byakuran has left through lock him inside while the walls crush him between them? Mukuro's mind comes up with numerous possibilities in the half hour he remains locked in indecision. The fatty oil from the bacon congeals, the toast grows cold, the boiled eggs left to the air no longer look as appetising as they had when hot and fresh.

Eventually he decides that waiting is only delaying his inevitable death. If the don has so planned it, he will die no matter which course he chose. Sitting here will do nothing and he will not die a coward's death.

It takes a few attempts to stand as his legs have gone to sleep during his pondering. Mukuro's first lurch upwards and awkward fall back trigger nothing so he assays to try again. By the time he is steady, the only change perceptible in the room is the breakfast set out, growing ever stale.

There is no sound. No movement. None save his own.

The illusionist ventures forth beyond the dining room. No life stirs. No-one runs from him to raise the alarm that he is walking free. No-one crosses paths with him so he can ask for the way out.

He is completely alone.

He quickens his steps, anxious to leave before the fickle white devil can change his mind. He is free! His spirit wants to rejoice but his mind cannot help but temper enthusiasm with suspicion. It is too easy - even with Byakuran's declaration, it was impossible to not meet even one of the Millefiore's many hitmen or runners. Every room he peers into is deserted. There are no signs at all that the rooms have ever been in use. All are furnished appropriately as their use dictates but each has a stillness that is only cultivated from a long period of disuse.

 _What trickery is this?_ The next room he comes across is devoid of any furnishings at all. And on it goes, each subsequent room turning up blank. Just white, white, white like a sheet of blank canvas. No, not pure white, light grey - a titanium alloy. The panels dazzle his eyes and throw shadows into sharp contrast with his surroundings so there exists only two colours: ebony and ivory, flashing at him though he tries to blink them away.

It is unnatural. The illusionist licks his lips and realises that they and his tongue are devoid of moisture. Since when? He has only been searching for a few hours, has he not? Now he realises that his limbs tremble; his knees give way and bring him to all fours where he pants, vision wavering. His throat makes the motions of swallowing but nothing goes down.

Water. Where is the water? And the grass? The wind. The trees. Cerulean, cyan, emerald, viridian.

No. No, nothing of the sort: no blue, no green, no reds or blues or blacks or yellows. No meadows with wild flowers; no deep-blue lake brimming with crystalline water; no shadowy forms of birds winging lazily in the sky. Flashes of light, awareness of movement. Warmth. Voices. But no colour, no.

Just white. Pure white.

 

 **III.** _**Dog Rose** _

There is a body lying beside him. Its warmth soothes in the way a mother's would. Against the coldness of his pale skin it is like a miniature sun whose heat seeps deliciously into his flesh, granting him fleshy insulation to counter the cool draft wafting against the other half of his frame.

He takes a breath. A floral scent sneaks by, foreign, unrecognised. A puff of air against his neck that is not his own.

He opens his eye but there is nothing to see. Someone's fingers slip through his dark tresses; he can sense rather than see a head looming over his own, and he can definitely feel the soft press of lips against his chin.

"Good morning, my lovely."

Despair carves a blacker anguish than those words or his blindness ever can. It sinks deeper and pools more thickly than treacle, coats him more thoroughly than oil and stains him irrevocably like ink. Gentle hands ghost up his cheek, hold his head steady which he realises has been lolling from side to side in denial. No shred of cloth separates their naked skins and only a meagre blanket serves to cover up both of their modesties, but the other man has hold of most of it.

"I tried to save your sight, Mukuro-kun. I really did. But..." A sigh. "They tell me the long-term trauma you've suffered induced it. I'm sorry." His hair is patted again and again in precisely the same way: from the crown of his head to just below his ear. Over and over, a sickening repetition he wants to tell the other to cease but cannot work enough moisture into his parched mouth to say.

As if anticipating his need, he's gently propped up and a glass of water held to his lips and he drinks thirstily, blindly questing for more when the glass is taken away from him. Byakuran laughs lowly and kisses him properly, tongue sweeping against the quivering line of his closed lips, sliding past them when they part to claim him roughly, possessively. Weakly, Mukuro pushes against his body but he may as well have been trying to topple a brick wall.

Byakuran's hot breath ghosts over his face when the don finally draws back, and it seems as if his eyes are raking over his body the way parts of him tingle, from top to bottom. There is the sound of cloth shifting then the blanket is yanked unceremoniously away, eliciting a flinch from him as all warmth disappears and leaves him cringing, naked, from the cold: all a calculated tactic. Byakuran pushes him back down and straddles him, leaning down enough to hint at the warmth that could be his to share.

"It's cold, Mukuro-kun. I want you to keep me warm."

Then the weight shifts off his hips, moving lower down. "No," he moans desperately, kicking weakly only to have his ankles taken hold of by two strong hands. "No...!" he repeats, beginning to panic when his legs are lifted. His last 'no' is lost in his scream when a thick rod of scorching heat punches past the tight outer rim of his orifice. Whimpers bubble to the surface like the blood which mingles with the warmth of the demon's phallus. Worse, Byakuran seems to delight in the sounds he makes, encouraging him with reassurances that the agony would fade in time while tearing into him and ripping open a fresh batch of pain and distraught cries.

Would that he had the strength to resist. Were his arms not sticks and his muscles not stringy, he would have gladly died in the attempt to strangle his violator. The demon knows this. He forces his pleasure on to his victim, pushing until screams turn exultant. Mukuro takes it all, weeping for the first time in years as he clutches the bed sheets and his eye glazes over with ecstasy.

His climax arrives, hot, sticky and pure in an arena of blood, panting bodies, sweat, tears and sheets stained with the seed of two men. None of this he sees but all of it he feels. He hiccups and turns his head aside in shame after his coming, feeling no satisfaction in spite of the pleasure which coursed through him but seconds ago. There's a grunt and a similar stickiness spills amongst torn inner flesh that weeps from abuse. But the softening hardness doesn't withdraw.

He knows, without a doubt, that the monster is smiling. A sob breaks out from him before he can stop it. The demon caresses his thighs, smearing something along the inside that can be only either blood or semen.

"Ahh..." comes the wistful sigh. "If only you could see how beautiful you look right now, Mukuro-kun."

The weight on the mattress shifts and Mukuro knows the demon is leaning above him. Tender kisses tickle his ear, the musky aroma of sweat and perfume brush by his senses. A nose buries itself at the nape of his neck and the disappearance of the last fragment of hope for a saviour smacks into him like a sledgehammer just as the other man begins to rock into him again. It shreds his thoughts apart like many knives at a silk screen.

Mukuro's hand reaches out, searching for the devil's visage. Finding it, he rests a hand on one cheek, other hand mirroring the gesture, and brings the face close to his own. His fingers trace the contours, thumbing supple lips, roaming the arch of the cheekbones and brow, tracing the definition of the rounded nose. His slender legs embrace Byakuran, welcoming the violation of his body where only moments ago he had rejected it. No words arise from his parted lips but the don does not need them.

"Beautiful," the white-haired man murmurs against his forehead, hands gripping the illusionist's hips as he picks up the pace. The illusionist clings to him like a child with head tipped back. Byakuran can tell his thrusts hurt by the way the wall contract around his length yet from Mukuro's slack jaw there issues forth only the sound of enjoyment.

"Beautiful," he murmurs again when Mukuro arches against his semen-splattered stomach for the third time that night with the most arousing moan he has heard in the myriad of his parallel lives. Sense tells him to stop now, before he exhausts them both, but sense has no appreciation for the pleasures that come with good sex.

"Beautiful," he groans as he ejaculates for the umpteenth time within his lovely doll and watches the flush of wanton lust rise in the filthy body beneath him, insatiable. A broken and obedient slave to his sexual whims who even now whimpers from the lack of action and tries to satisfy himself on his shaft. Shaking his head, he pulls out (much to his doll's audible disappointment), and inspects the masterpiece he has painted with the body's fluids.

Dark reds splashed across stark white, still leaking from rear of the deliciously naked body with dark, sweat-soaked hair. Lighter pinks and vermillion where there are smears. Glistening translucent arcs trace the story of their coition in the sheets and across their stomachs, the most recent still dripping wet and sticky from their limp cocks. A tale of bestial rutting and fierce lovemaking that receives Byakuran's nod of approval.

He doesn't need to tell his little kitten to rest and recover; he already is. So Byakuran exits quietly, leaving his lover amidst their freshly-painted tapestry of carnal desire. When the illusionist has recovered, they will paint one which sings of rapture.

 

 **IV.** _**Meadow Saffron** _

The invisible presence he knows to be Byakuran he comes to redefine by his scent (the scent of flowers; a scent he comes to hunger for), his weight pressing down on his thighs, pelvis and hips, the vague shadows and periods of light from his movement, the heavy breaths and grunts from their coupling, and the overbearing warmth of his caresses and his naked body that he cannot bring himself to hate. Because he is cold, so cold, and Byakuran is his only source of heat in this stark, lightless world. He is the anchor that keeps him from drifting away from reality with physical contact that sends him to the stars and back.

Innumerable days, weeks, months pass filled with nothing but rough sex. His skin hungers for intimacy, flares in heat at the first sound, first hint of Byakuran's step. He needs no chains because he has been bound by these tethers of his own making. The pattern is always the same: Byakuran will step in, take his time in circling the bed admiring his prize, then there will be the sound of cloth falling away and the bed will sink with the don's weight, and depending upon his mood, Mukuro will either be mounted from behind or taken on his back.

He cries. He always cries. For what reason, he does not know. The shattered pieces Byakuran has left him don't comprehend negative emotion, only bliss. They respond blithely to his intimate touches and welcome him wholly into his body. What was his past and what is his future lie far from the crossroads of the present.

He whispers, 'I love you', one night, as he lies curled in the inner shell of the don's embrace. He does not remember what it is but he whispers it because he has heard it said by humans in decades past, and Byakuran responds by touching him between his legs, stroking him until he peaks and calls out his name with all the fervour of a lover. The illusionist doesn't see how the don's eyes sharpen, or how they glimmer pale lavender around a disc of black. Exultant, he doesn't hear the words touch like a breath against his nape, so sad and consumed by longing, his partner's tightened grip around his bony waist, nor the tear blinked away before it can traverse the don's flawless cheek. It is an illusion the Millefiore leader must maintain out of sight of his beloved though Mukuro no longer possesses his sight. A leader is not moved by trivialities.

So Mukuro knows nothing of these moments of weakness. Byakuran is careful to keep him confined to his cell as his position increasingly forces him to spend time attending to the outside world. There are no more breakfasts (it is too dangerous with the threat of attack imminent, says the whisper of a hand stroking his hair) and there grow to be fewer visits (war meetings, a soft touch on his cheek and a kiss on his forehead tell him). But he is not left desirous - he still has his meals; he begins to regain a more healthy pallor yet his wasted muscles are left to thin. His only exercise is the walk between the bathroom and the bed and the exhaustive romps they enjoy when the don comes by.

But there comes a day when that routine changes.

He hears a gunshot echo, not very loudly. The sound of a fired bullet carries a long way from its source and it arouses a vague curiosity in him. Where had it come from and who had let off the shot?

Slow, measured footsteps interrupt his ruminations. Byakuran steps into the room, waits for the door to hiss shut behind him before mounting the bed. As expected, the don slides in with no problem and begins to build a steady rhythm with no word as to the slaughter occurring not a corridor away. Mukuro mewls against his shoulder and inhales the fresh scent that the other is wearing today.

"...Lilies...?"

His lover, in no hurry, apparently, for he is taking his time to kiss and tease, whispers back in amorous Italian, "Your favourite flower...yes?" Mukuro's breath catches, cheeks suffusing with dark magenta and his clutch tightening with the reaching of his sensitive spot.

"Yes," he responds tremblingly, whimpering with the second impinging upon that cluster of nerves. He can feel Byakuran's pleasure in the firm hands which anchor his hips so that the other's manhood penetrates deeply into his recesses. The don bends over him, lifting his hips with each measured thrust and lips the fevered flesh he finds wanting cooling but is instead left more inflamed by the light caress. The bed groans at their exertions, and in-between the creaking of the springs Byakuran makes a request of his lover.

"Swear your love for me, Mukuro-kun... Swear no other's affections will satisfy." The intensity of his pale gaze might have frightened the illusionist, had he been able to view it.

Rather than answer, his partner kisses him deeply, laying a trail of saliva so thick it hangs between their lips like a transparent bridge once they part. Then does he reply, a hoarse vow of love delivered into the cone of his ear with Byakuran's flesh inside him and their sweat and breath commingling as if they are truly one. As if humbled, the don bows his head. The rocking doesn't stop, not until the illusionist's knees are gripping his sides and his seed spills in a thick torrent. Then Byakuran pauses, to watch the changes in his lover's expression, his own still - so still. Had the Millefiore leader been in the habit of using the word, he would have described it as 'sad'.

At the height of the illusionist's elation, a glint of steel slides out from beneath the pillow, clenched in Byakuran's fist. The blade rests its edge upon the jugular, so easily reachable in this state of bliss, and cuts viciously into the skin. It bites through muscle, opens the thick artery with ease and Mukuro's life bleeds out on to the crisp linen. Death follows imminently.

The don surveys his work, from the prone body to the dripping knife in his fist. He gently slides from his lover's cavern and lets his lower limbs down gently, leaving them sprawled apart. This corpse, this Mukuro - why does he feel no gladness for the confession before his passing? He who has seen as many universes as there are stars in the sky, witnessed as many tragedies as happy endings, fallen in love and been denied it countless, countless times...he looks upon the ugly cadaver before him and finds within himself a loathing that has him raising the knife, contemplating his own demise.

It does not descend. The blade is put aside and the don climbs down from the blood-soaked sheets, turning his back on the depraved scene and slipping one of his favourite gelatinous treats between his lips with a soft hum. There was no time to mourn; there were people to kill.

 

 

They find the desecrated body much later: limbs flung carelessly out, evidence of semen on the sheets, copious blood from its slashed neck and a slack look frozen between utter contentment and disbelief upon its graceless features. No-one can identify who the man is, but they commit it to fire along with the rest all the same.

 

 **V.** _**White Periwinkle** _

Mukuro sat leaning forward, elbows resting on his knees, fingers steepled before a lightly-frowning visage that had yet to lose its boyish charm. The memories of the past and future flickered like an old film reel before him, colours and sensations dulled slightly by age with very few events recalled in shocking clarity. They mingled, the vague with the sharp, bringing back the scents and sights and sounds of years past and years to come. If he cared to, he could close his eyes and draw up a recollection from the well of his memories like a fishermen reeling in his catch. It would play out before him, seeming a world apart from the life he lived now, then fade back into obscurity.

He closed his eyes now and tried to snatch an image out of the torrent of those from the future. None stayed for long. He saw flashes of battle, flames of all colours of the rainbow roaring past. He heard voices shouting, and the urgent tone of what he thought was his own. There were faces, scowling or smiling or leering at him out of smoke and shadows. Blood. Plenty of blood. The faces of the Guardians at all ages, including his own. He watched his face grow longer, eyes more fey and sly, hair long and smile less cruel and more kind (the last he attributed to Sawada).

But these all seemed like wraiths in comparison to the man in white with snowy wings. He watched his own defeat play out, felt the false satisfaction of his faux defeat and the fear when death's cold hand seemed to reach out and touch his heart. There was darkness then there was light. He knew hope and despair and black thoughts he had not contemplated for years. All because of that angel disguised as the devil.

Mukuro relived the moment of his future self's rape, flinching when the monster took him. He skimmed through the rest, disgusted and disbelieving of his own weakness. Sawada had softened him, he could see that. He knew the tactics that would fail him in years to come now, and could formulate new strategies. He would not let himself become human.

He came back to the present and found the front of his trousers altogether too tight. An unfortunate side effect of sifting through certain memories. He shifted uncomfortably, glancing around carefully for sign of the others. Ken and Chikusa had gone with Chrome to the supermarket. They should not be back for hours yet. More, if they squabbled.

Knowing this, he leant back into the couch and allowed his hand to touch upon the slight bulge between his legs. He was not usually one for masturbation, preferring to find a woman (or man) to lie with and relieve him, but he felt he could make an exception this one time. There was no shortage of stimulus after all.

He brought to mind one of the latter montages where his future self had been so enamoured as to forget himself and profess love to his rapist. His eyelids flickered when he 'felt' the first touch upon his bare skin, arousing the hunger for another's flesh within him. He took the time to loosen his belt, unzip his trousers and push them down his thighs, mouth parting with an almost-moan as his fingers made more intimate contact with himself. Only thin cotton stretched between his arousal and the hand which would soon be relieving it. He could hear (remember) himself uttering the most delicious moan when that demon's hand had grasped his shaft.

The fabric had to go. Without ceremony, it was yanked down to join his trousers and he could replicate what his white-haired captor had done to him (was doing to him) in the years ahead.

Next had been the soft, sure stroking that covered his entire length, from base to tip. He remembered the feel of another man's hand crossing back and forth over every vein and it paralleled to the strokes he was making now. Mukuro made sure to follow his pace precisely and copy every little movement from the near-painful pressing of his slit to the sudden tightening of the fist over his erection. He even found himself mimicking the lusty noises he had made, so immersed was he within his memory.

His hips thrust unbidden into his hand. He arched off the couch at times, following the peak and fall of his own arousal as it steadily and surely built into a raging crescendo of hot, liquid desire. One final thrust sent him over and he came violently with that name on his lips, spilling his seed across the floor and over his uniform.

When it was over he sat awhile, dwelling in the lazy aftermath, wearing a small, satisfied smile. The pleasures of sex were not a luxury he had allowed himself until just now and it was as fulfilling as it always was. The memory he had used may not have been pleasant but the act certainly had been.

The sight that greeted him when he eventually opened his eyes froze him in his seat.

 _He_ was standing there, watching him. That catty, deceptive smile and those laughing eyes that put you at ease before you were slaughtered stared straight into his. He was younger, but no less arrogant. No less angelic.

And Mukuro, with his manhood exposed and the remains of his pleasure white, sticky and embarrassingly clear, found he could not move nor utter a word of challenge.

The demon floated towards him on white wings, hovered above him as its laughter tinkled in the silence.

"I heard someone call my name," the demon sang, touching down just in front of his knees and leaning forward so that its face took up his entire vision. "Who was it~?"

Mukuro did not get a chance to reply before the demon had moved on to the couch with him, knees on either side of his legs. Trapping him where he was.

"It looks like Mukuro-kun enjoyed the memories I left him with." He could smell the demon's breath, sugary. Marshmallows. Firm lips pressed against his own and stole his breath away with a kiss. He felt himself falling sideways, his back hitting the seat of the couch, everything from the waist down being taken off him. A warm weight pressing him down...

"I wanted Mukuro-kun to love me," the demon said as its hand slid beneath his shirt, up his abdomen and to his chest where it tweaked a nipple. The simple act stirred the coals of lingering arousal in his loins. A finger roamed down his length, tracing the little bumps where veins branched while a warm tongue lapped at the hollow of his neck, tracing the bobbing Adam's apple. The demon then rose and loomed over him.

It had all been planned. The future where the Vongola had been given hope to destroy the scourge that was Byakuran and his Famiglia, the Millefiore, had been a set-up from the beginning. Byakuran had never had plans to vanquish this world; he'd only been concerned with taking one illusionist hostage - an illusionist who would of course have been sent deep undercover to spy upon the enemy and relay his findings back to his Famiglia. That illusionist would have been discovered...and from there Byakuran's plan flourished.

Mukuro flushed as he recalled all the nights of impassioned sex they had had. That had been Byakuran's design too: knowing he could not woo the illusionist by normal means, he had forced upon the teen years' worth of memories that could not fail to leave an impression on him.

He had been blind then. He was not blind now. Byakuran leaned close, sensing his decision close at hand. Mukuro pulled him closer still, eyes dark with want and voice husky with desire. It was not the love spoken of in fairy tales, but it was a love.

His lips parted as if to speak but not a word did he utter.

The demon smiled.

**Author's Note:**

> 'La Bella Donna' means 'beautiful woman' in Italian. It is also the name of a plant: nightshade.
> 
> Belladonna (deadly nightshade) - Silence
> 
> Lily - Beauty, elegance, sweetness  
> Periwinkle, white - Pleasures of memory  
> Rose, Dog - Pleasure and pain  
> Rose, Hundred-leaved - Pride, dignity of mind  
> Saffron, Meadow - My happiest days are past  
> Straw, broken - Rupture of contract, dissension  
> Tansy, Wild - Resistance, I declare against you


End file.
